


Arrows and Circuses

by CavannaRose, MelyssaShadows



Series: Noir Stories [3]
Category: Hawkeye (Comics)
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1940s, Alternate Universe - Noir, Circus, Circus Performer Clint Barton, Gen, Hunters & Hunting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-21
Updated: 2020-01-25
Packaged: 2020-10-25 02:16:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,128
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20716433
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CavannaRose/pseuds/CavannaRose, https://archiveofourown.org/users/MelyssaShadows/pseuds/MelyssaShadows
Summary: It's the 1940s, and circus sideshow performer Clint Barton has his world burn down around him. Now he will pursue the perpetrator to the end of the world and beyond if he has to, cleaning up the garbage along the way.





	1. Chapter 1

There were nights when a man wanted the world to know his name, when he felt like King of the Town, Top of the Heap... Clint Barton didn't have too many of those, and tonight wasn't shaping up to be one of them either. Once performances were over with the travelling circus he was currently living with, he often wandered the streets of whatever City they happened to be in that week, stopping petty thefts and muggings with an air of quiet distraction. Part of him felt like he was meant for bigger and better things, but the other half wondered if that was entirely true.

Whispers were spreading, about people with incredible abilities. Some of them dark, some of them light, but all of them slowly making themselves known in this strange new world they all found themselves in. He wasn't that kind of person. Sure he was quick, and deadly accurate with pretty much anything he picked up, that's how he had landed his job with the circus side show. Knife throwing, shooting apples out of people's mouths, and other assorted death-defying acts with all things sharp and pointy managed to draw a crowd, even in this day and age, but that was just training and a little natural talent. He wasn't shaping the world here, hell, he was hardly even shaping his own world.

Maybe he was too big for his britches. The ringmaster called him that often enough. Said he put on airs, thought he was better than the rest of them. That couldn't be further from the truth. The family he had made travelling with the sideshow was dearer to him than he could even begin to define. Deaf in one ear, alone in the world, he had thought his life was over before the bearded lady, Margie, had stumbled across him, drunk as a skunk in some dive bar, throwing darts for pints like some trained monkey. They sideshow had taken him in, sobered him up, and treated him like he belonged. Maybe Georgio the Wolfboy was terrifying to some, and maybe Strong Jim made folks think he was one of those heroes folks whispered about, but to him they were his brothers and sisters. They'd shared their secrets and their fears with each other.

The sound of the fire siren split the air, and Clint froze, sniffing the air as if that would somehow lead him to the trouble. Minutes later the fire brigade blazed by, back in the direction he had come from. A horrid feeling hit the pit of his stomach, and he turned, giving chase to the brigade as fast as his legs could carry him. As he drew nearer to the place the circus had set up that morning, smoke and ash hung heavy in the air, making breathing a struggle. Weeping and pained moans played a low counterpoint to the shouted instructions from various firemen. Bucket brigades were putting out the smoldering remains of the last big top tent.

Terrified for his found family, Clint pushed through the crowds, scanning them for a familiar face amidst the soot and heavy fire blankets. Finally he found Georgio, the hair on his face singed until he was damn near clean-shaven. Putting a hand gently on the young man's shoulder, Clint gestured at the scene, at a loss for what to say. Georgio shook his head. "It was bad. Ringmaster is gone, took all the money with him when he went. Margie didn't make it, Jim too... so many were caught inside when everything went up..."

Staggering back, he put a hand against the nearest engine, the sound of water pumping through the tanks almost soothing, or at least it would be if his whole life hadn't just gone up in smoke. Somewhere out there a man they had all pledged themselves to was on the run. The Ringmaster had betrayed them all, and there were so many innocent souls that would shine no more. All for what? Money? Clint pushed down the rage growing inside him. He had to stay cold, stay cool. Margie and Jim deserved vengeance, and there was no one in the world that would pursue it for them. No one but him.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

That had been four years ago, and Clint Barton was still on the trail of the man known as The Ringmaster. After the fire he had disappeared for four months, popping up again halfway across the country where he rain a real estate development scheme, fleecing rich business men for all they were worth. Clint had almost caught him, when he'd pulled another burn-and-run. This time he had been prepared though. No innocent casualties were caught in the inferno. Ensuring their safety had allowed the Ringmaster to escape, but he stood by his decision.

After that it had been a human trafficking ring, arms dealing, and high profile art theft. Each time Clint got close, the slippery bastard managed to ooze between the cracks and escape. In the pursuit of his enemy, Clint had developed a bit of a name for himself as a vigilante. He'd had to get a mask to hide his identity. Armed with a bow and arrow, mostly, though he also carried throwing knives, his chase had turned over plenty of rocks, stomping on the disgusting bottom-feeders that associated with the likes of the Ringmaster. Every time a few more got scooped up and locked away, though his main quarry always seemed to escape at the last minute.

Not this time though, Clint was sure of it. He had intel that suggested the man was meeting with a high profile contract killer tonight, and Clint was itching to bring them both in. Apparently the Ringmaster was tired of the relentless way the vigilante that the newspapers were calling Hawkeye was chasing him, and he wanted to put an end to it. Clint wondered if the Ringmaster knew who he was, knew that it was someone out of his own past hunting him down, or if he thought that Clint had perished with so many others, back in that fire.

It was time to find out.


	2. Chapter 2

Clint paid little attention as people came and went from the speakeasy. Though all of them were varying levels of either lovely or ridiculous, none of them were the man he had hunted for so long. Until one of them was. Dressed all in black, a little older than the archer remembered him to be, the Ringmaster was impossible to mistake. Clint knew everything about him. The way he walked, the way he spoke, the way he kept his toiletries set up for his morning cleansing routine. He could see them in his mind's eye, the little gold bottle and the musky smell of the King's Men cologne the Ringmaster always wore. To this day he couldn't stand the stink of it.  
  
Not wanting to be caught out just yet, he'd only barely managed to track the bastard down this time, he lay in wait near the entrance, blending with the shadows. Just another anonymous figure on the street that night. The Ringmaster wasn't inside for long, and when he left Clint ducked his head and followed along behind him, making sure that there were always bodies between them along the sidewalk. It wasn't easy to do, at this time of night, and a few times he had to fall back further than he would have preferred, but none of that mattered overmuch. He wasn't sure which of the speakeasy guests had been the killer, but that was a problem for later Clint. Right Now Clint had his own prey to stalk.  
  
Or at least he did until the Ringmaster flagged down a cab. Moving quickly into sight, he memorized the vehicle's plate and the name of the cab company. It shouldn't be too hard to figure out where the car took the Ringmaster. The bastard stood out, always had, always would. He would get no answers until the morning, though, when the cabbies turned in their fares for the evening. What he needed to do was locate the depot and wait it out. He hated waiting, it was the worst part of the job.  
  
Luckily for him, he wasn't going to have to wait that long. It took him three hours to locate the cab depot. Just his luck that it was on the opposite side of the damned city. He hoofed it across town, arriving slightly more short of breath than he would ever want to admit. At his prime the trek would have been a joke, but he wasn't what he once was. Fighting crime the way he did kept him in better shape than doing nothing, but it left very little time for exercising at the gym. Maybe he should look into some boxing lessons. Something to work on his wind, and give him something to fall back on when he got caught in hand to hand situations. He let his mind wander as he waited for the cabbies to come in for the night.  
  
It was late June, and a light rain was falling amidst the circus tents. Margie could be heard singing, off-key but full of enthusiasm, as she worked in the cook-tent. Clint hadn't been with them long at that point, maybe five or six days, but it was already starting to feel more like home than anywhere he'd been in a long time. That terrified him, and the need to run was choking him from the inside. A pair of shiny shoes entered his field of vision, followed by a cloud of cologne that even the damp summer weather couldn't quell. The Ringmaster crouched down beside where he was sitting, getting steadily more soaked but unable to find the willingness to move. "Come in out of the rain, lad. I promise, we don't bite."  
  
He'd let the man take him by the hand and lead him in to where the rest were gathered. A gesture of trust, one he had rarely granted anyone in his life. Of course, that just proved how poor a judge of character he was. The man was a snake to his very core, and from what Clint had uncovered thus far had already been planning the arson that would kill so many of the weird and wonderful people that Clint would consider family before that first summer had come to an end. He should have known something was off. The heavy cologne, the uncalloused hands despite living in a world where hard work was the only thing that kept honest folks ahead of the curve.  
  
But he hadn't that night. Instead, he'd laughed at the man's jokes as they poured each other mugs of Margie's famous leek and potato soup, professing their love for the blushing woman while her husband pretended to threaten their lives. Before the fire, it had been his fondest memory. The one he reached for when the desire to drink got too strong. Now when he was in those dark moments, he found himself floundering. It was like the very foundation of his being had been shattered, leaving him drowning in the mess that life left for him. That was the least of the Ringmaster's crimes.  
  
Finally the cab pulled into the lot, and Clint watched the man turn in his percentages before casually striding over. "Morning, friend." He held up a hand to stop the man from speaking further. "I only need a moment of your time. You had a customer tonight. Quiet gentleman, aggressively polite, stinks of Kings Men's cologne, dressed all in black?" The cabbie nodded cautiously, eyes narrowing in suspicion as he examined Clint. The archer smiled, slipping a couple folded dollar bills into the man's breast pocket. "How about I buy you a coffee and some breakfast, and you can tell me about where you took that man, and anything else you may have noticed about him?"  
  
The cabbie, being the clever sort, pulled out the bills, eyes widening at the values on the faces. Clint wasn't unwilling to spend good money on his hunt. "Awright. I could stand for a cuppa, an' maybe some eggs. They's still rationin' most places right now, so that'd be a right treat."  
  
Clint smiled, though the expression didn't reach his eyes, or warm his face even a little bit. "That works just fine for me, sir. Why don't you lead the way?"


	3. Chapter 3

The café was quiet in the early morning, the few patrons focusing on funneling as much coffee down their throats as they physically could. Clint scanned the tired looking group, assessing threats before choosing a booth near the back of the diner, sliding into the seat that let him keep an eye on both the exit, and the little door into the kitchen. Seemingly unconcerned the cab driver slid in across from him, taking a menu from the waitress with a quiet 'thank you'. Clint echoed the sentiment with a quick nod, scanning the room again over the top of the menu, barely registering the pictures and prices. He'd been here often enough that he knew what he was getting, though he appreciated the menu anyway.

Reassured that there was no one sketchy in the café with them, he turned his attention to the cabbie. He was an older fellow, the signs of age and a hard life weathering lines into his face. The position and angle of the lines said he smiled more than he frowned, laughed more than he cried. The mostly grey hair held signs that it had once been a light brown, much the same colour as the eyes that examined Clint almost as intensely as he examined the man across from him. His clothes were comfortable, worn but not worn out. Nothing fashionable, but nothing that would look too awful after a long night behind the wheel of an automobile. The hands holding the menu were heavily calloused, as if he often engaged in work significantly more strenuous than what he had been doing in the night that had just passed. 

There was no crime in holding more than one job, and the pattern of callouses wasn't anything like the ones that Clint bore. Nothing about the older man said he would know how to wield a weapon. In fact, he seemed to be the affable, underpaid blue collar worker that he was, but that was enough to make a man like Clint had become suspicious. Still, he held his tongue. No use posing questions until he had made good on his end of the bargain. Say what you would about the people around these parts, but they always remembered a slight. Fail to deliver even once, and they would spread your name to every corner of the city. Hold up your end, well, that would spread too. Clint was developing a good name for himself amid the lower elements.

They both ordered their food, people felt more comfortable if you ate with them, then they sat back, sipping the sweet black brew that fueled more days and nights than Clint was willing to admit to. The cabbie offered a half smile as he stirred cream into his, clearly relishing the indulgence. "Well I s'pose you done what you said you would there, fella, so's I best be fulfilling me end of the deal." Clint wasn't one hundred percent sure as to the origins of the man's accent, but there was a hint of Irish, or maybe Scots. Pegging accents had never been his strong suit, even before he started losing his hearing. He wasn't hardly deaf yet, but it was certainly looming in the future.

"No rush, friend. Get some food into you, then we can talk business." 

That earned him a small nod of approval, and as their plates were brought out the cabbie smiled at him. "Much obliged. My name's William, even though you din't ask. Do you have something I can call you asides Mysterious Stranger?"

Clint laughed, popping a piece of crisp bacon into his mouth, eyes closing for a moment as he enjoyed the texture, the rich, fatty taste. He hadn't had so much as a rasher of bacon for a good month or so, and it was a treat. A treat that was likely to tap most of his remaining funds, but if the cabbie - William - if William's information was good, then he was near the end of his investigation. "Fair enough, William. Folks call me Hawkeye, though that's obviously not the name my mother gave me. I hope you understand if I don't give you more than that, since the nature of our little tête-à-tête might bring some negativity blowing back on me."

William nodded, another quick smile tugging his lips upwards. "Well, it ain't particular more a name than Mysterious Stranger, but ... " The cabbie paused, chewed a mouthful of eggs, and then continued. "I've heard a bit of this and that about a fella might call himself something like Hawkeye. Heard he was spreading some money around asking questions, but was also happy to stop and lend a hand to the little guy along the way. Heard tell he'd intervened in a few muggings down near the docks not too long ago, rescued some of those American-born Japanese kids that were being illegally shipped out of the country. You got anything to do with that Hawkeye?"

Clint snorted, hiding the laugh behind another swig of coffee. The old driver was more in touch than he had expected. Suspicion warred with being impressed, and being impressed won. "I heard that the night drivers were the real keepers of knowledge around these parts. I see I was informed correctly." He poured some syrup on his pancakes, watched the fluffy layers soak up the butter flavour as he weighed his next words. "I definitely recall being around some docks recently, as for the rest, I find its best not to confirm or deny such activities." Their eyes met across the table, understanding passing between them. "So that gentleman you dropped off tonight, you have some addresses for me?"

"Might just be that I do, but you understand, a cabbie is only as good as his reputation. Folks hear I been spreading their business, well my own business might ain't be the only thing that suffers." Clint nodded, keeping his face blank. "Of course, this is just a quick breakfast between friends, and friends are prone to gossip. That ain't the same thing as selling secrets." Finally a smile sparked in Clint's eyes, and he leaned forward as William gave him a pair of addresses: One he knew, since he'd been hovering about there, and another that he hadn't been to... yet.


End file.
